The Restart Button
by Celesteennui
Summary: Considering what an ordeal being a henchman was, Gary can understand why nobody ever mentioned how much crap a hero goes through. Luckily, working for the Monarch conditioned him to endure bumpy, bullet-riddled, explosive rides. And maybe even to enjoy them too.
1. The Newbie Blues

Disclaimer: The Venture Bros. and their universe are the property of Jackson Public, Doc Hammer, Astrobase Go, and the Cartoon Network. In other words, I do NOT own the majority of these characters, so, please, don't sue me. The few OCs popping around are mine but considering they're part of a fanfiction, I'm sure there's not much to be done with them.

Author's Notes: I started this about a month before the season 5 premiere came along so, as you read along, you might notice that isn't following the cannon. I was kind of banking on Gary staying part of the S.P.H.I.N.X. team and, well, the S.P.H.I.N.X. team, you know, _existing_. This is why I don't ever gamble IRL with money. I'd be way poorer than I already am. Please enjoy the story.

* * *

So what exactly does a guy do when he loses his best friend (or rather, the hallucination _of_ said best friend), his girl—who, actually was never even remotely his to begin with—and his faith the only life he's known since he was fifteen-years-old? A couple of self-help books suggested art therapy and a long vacation. Gary had not done that. Gary had gotten blackout drunk and woken up buck-naked in a Tijuana holding cell with a couple new tattoos and a hangover that could have made the gods weep.

Fortunately for his poor, throbbing head, and more fortunately for the so-called guards at the aforementioned Tijuana holding cell, Shore Leave had decided to tag him when was unconscious in S.P.H.I.N.X. headquarters. Normally that sort of deal would have bugged the shit out of Gary but considering the other guy also showed with bail money, Advil, and a job offer, he let it go.

So, in a nutshell, that's how he ended up here, in Tangiers, vent crawling with Brock Samson and Shore Leave grinding out orders in his earpiece. It was a dream come true. For the most part—he'd pictured secret-agent hero work with much less micro-management.

"Keep it steady, Rookie, your drop is only ten feet off." Update number one-thousand comes along with the tinny pop of gunfire. The boss, apparently, had run into something fun. Not fun enough to stop him from his five second checkups, though.

"Dude, I can read the GPS. I'm fine." It's a half-truth; he'd sort of been learning to operate the standard issue S.P.H.I.N.X. GPS on the fly. Turns out—_surprise!—_that the Monarch didn't stock the Cocoon with too much state-of-the-art tech, which, consequently, also explained _so_ much about the Venture Compound. He had it down now, though.

Well, 99.9%; enough to know that the big X is indeed ten feet off. _And_ enough to check the thermal scanner, which proves Sky Pilot's in-flight warning about twenty-five people being on the other side of said drop.

This is officially going to be a really fun work day.

"We're sure you are; just keep your head up, Garasaurus." A gargling noise—Brock's knife in a trachea, Gary presumes—punctuates Shore Leave's fond warning before the comlink goes silent.

Hoping that it's the last he hears from the senior officers until the job is done, Gary metaphorically crosses his fingers as he continues to shimmy along the vent shaft. It's not exactly the easiest fit, but he's chalking that up to sub-par architecture and _not_ his figure. If he never had problems in the Venture vents with their inconsistent shape, he shouldn't have them anywhere else.

Static chatter fills the air the closer that he draws to the drop. Gary can't understand any of it since it's in Darija and he doesn't even speak Arabic, let alone the Moroccan/French variant of the city. Luckily, none of that matters since the bomb, the hostages, and their guards are in sight beneath the vent mouth. Actually, give or take a few inches, the guards are pretty much a straight shot below.

It's both comforting _and_ dissatisfying to know that henchmen, no matter their credence, continually make boneheaded decisions.

The hostages are in a cage on the other side of the room, so a ricochet casualty isn't a real worry. However, the bomb is kind of close, so ricochet-blowing-everything-the-fuck-up is. Besides, it's been forever since he got the literal jump on an enemy.

Cool gadgets come in bulk at S.P.H.I.N.X. and Gary's favorite so far is a canister of micro-explosive clay; dab a little on a lock, count to two, and BOOM! Door is open. Sky Pilot had called it Spark Putty; Shore Leave went with Flay-Doh. Personally, Gary didn't have a preference on the name, he just liked when it blew things apart for him like it did to the vent after he applied dots over its fasteners.

The guards get approximately one second to jump and wave their guns before Gary's on top of them. Two go down with his wrist blades through their necks and Gary uses one of them as a shield for when his other three friends realize what's going on. The meat sack serves his purpose well; he's so full of lead that he would blow an MRI to bits by the time Gary throws him at his cohorts. Human Shield (that's his name, now) knocks over one guard and sends the other two scrabbling. While they jump, he slides, gutting one like a fish as he goes and nicking the other's Achilles tendon. Gut-Bust (yes, that's _his_ name now) slumps into a puddle of himself as Gary rises, putting a blade up through Achilles' skull via the soft spot beneath the chin.

Part of him is still a little insulted over the fact that Brock and Shore Leave got the roomful of bad guys while he played safety. And, yeah, he could sulk about it, maybe try and guilt them later for wasting him. Or, he could stand there, thoroughly enjoying the carnage he's helped to wreak and continue to be a badass.

"I'd rethink that." His words are accentuated by the creak of bones as his boot finds the back of the dude's hand. Idiot is making a pathetic reach for his gun strewn _just_ beyond of his fingertips. There's an embarrassing high-pitched squeal followed by what Gary's guessing is some pretty colorful language in his native tongue.

Gary applies just enough pressure to shatter the carpals, and possibly fracturing the radius and ulna as well, before planting a swift kick to the back of his head. Since Shore Leave and Brock have the fearless leader of this operation along with the heavy enforcers wherever they are, Gary probably doesn't need to keep this one alive. Still, it's better to be safe than sorry so he pulls the FlexiCuffs from his utility belt (how fucking cool is it that he has a S.P.H.I.N.X. issued and regularly restocked utility belt?) and slaps them on his one surviving guard, wrists _and_ ankles.

Sky Pilot would be _so_ proud to see him taking that advice to heart.

From there on out it's all kind of boring. He disarms the bomb with the instructions downloaded into his comlink then rests on his laurels, trying to ignore the people in the cage and avoid eye-contact. There'll be another squad coming through once everything is clear that will take care of freeing them and getting them home, therapy, and all that jazz.

It's still really hard to play it cool while there's an old lady wailing twenty feet away. Even harder not to feel like a douchebag.

Luckily, he doesn't have to endure it very long. As he's double checking the bomb with the tactile interface on his comlink, the line comes alive again.

"We're clean up here, how's it on your end, Gary-Bo-Berry?" Restraining himself from an audible sigh, Gary has to admit that Gary-Bo-Berry is one of the better little nicknames Shore Leave has tagged him with. Far better than Gary Indiana, Gary Poppins, or—possibly the worst epithet ever—Strawgary Shortcake.

"Everything's fine. Bomb's dead and so are most all of the guards. I saved one just in case." He toes

"Well, look at you, Mr. Considerate." Really, he tries not to but somehow Gary just can't resist glowing a little (internally only, of course) from the compliment. Swishiest operative on the planet or not, Shore Leave is still comparable to Brock in badassery. Compliments from him are not to be disregarded. "Just leave him for the O.S.I. to play with. Might as well give the slowpokes something to do other than hand out blankets and cocoa to the hostages. They're all still alive, right? You did a head count?"

"Yes. I. Did." Silly nicknames he can let go, his competence at counting and knowing the bad guys from the good guys is a little, well, a _lot_, harder.

"Okay, okay, sheesh." The borderline patronizing apology comes as it always does.

Brock's voice breaks through before Gary can start up the old "Can you not treat me like a child?" argument. "Okay, Rookie, meet us back at the pickup." There's the flicker of flint and metal, telltale of a cigarette being popped between Brock's even white teeth. Gary can hear his C.O. grinning. "By the way, there were a couple we barred out of the main hall when we hit it. Go ahead and do the honors on the way, would ya?"

All right, maybe, just maybe, being the "rookie" isn't as bad as his banged-up pride makes it up to be.

Out come the wrist blades and open snaps the restraint on his gun holster as Gary begins his dash to the door. The sound of footsteps and unfamiliar voices shouting are already echoing down to him.

Yes, indeed, it is really fun day to be an agent of S.P.H.I.N.X.

**{This Is The Self-Important Story Break, Pay It No Mind}**

Most of the trip back to headquarters Gary spends sleeping. The cell that he, Brock, and Shore Leave had gone to clean up was the limb of a bigger monster whose head they'd already clipped, so there were no souvenirs to bring home and interrogate. Not that Gary ever did any interrogating, but that was beside the point.

The point is one minute he's napping peacefully on one of the fold out bunks in the back of the jet and the next Brock's booming "What the fuck?!" rips right through his haze of sleep. The reaction is instantaneous, blades out he runs into the cockpit.

"What?!" He doesn't see anything distressing in the compartment but the outside is a little surprising. They're descending on their inch of the Venture compound and two O.S.I. regulation jets are settled on the lawn. "Hey, what the hell are those?!"

"O.S.I. Blue Wings." He really shouldn't expect scintillating conversation from Brock at this point.

"Dude, I can see _that_!" he exclaims. "What are they doing _here_ is the implied question."

Gathers had ascended to the top job at the old office approximately two weeks ago, handing the helm of the splinter group he'd built over to Brock. Little had been said about the change, and even less was supposed _to_ change other than the O.S.I. formally absorbing S.P.H.I.N.X. as a branch of the organization. They were still supposed to deal with the non-costumed bad guys and still had their dated Egyptian motif; no big stuff.

"Hell if I know," Brock says.

Like Brock, Shore Leave's brow has a furrow that knots Gary's stomach. Serious Shore Leave never bodes well for anyone. "Visits aren't supposed to happen without an extended notice and definitely not without a response from Fearless Leader."

"You don't think Hunter's changed his mind, do you?" Sky Pilot asks.

Shore Leave shakes his head with gusto. "No. No way. Hunter wouldn't tear down something he built with his bare hands. Especially when it's still serves a good goddamn purpose. Right?" That last word comes out with just enough uncertainty that Gary is now officially worried.

Brock doesn't answer. That hard look stays in place, his cigarette switches to the opposite corner of his mouth and he gives the nod to Sky Pilot to keep taking their jet down.

The closer that they get to the ground, the more knots tie in Gary's stomach. There's no one outside HQ, not Johnson, not Elbret, not Michaels, none of the men he knows. Only one person stands between the O.S.I. jets and the old manufacturing plant. A lone figure leaning against a motorcycle, arms crossed, as if they were late for a meeting.

It can't be Gen. Gathers, it's too tall. It _could_ be one of the other S.P.H.I.N.X. agents but that's pretty doubtful considering the ominous nature of the O.S.I. equipment parked on their lawn. For all that Gary can tell, what with the thick motocross jacket and helmet it's wearing, the person poised at their front door may not even be a person at all, it might be robot.

As soon as "robot" crosses his thoughts, Gary's doing a mental inventory of his utility belt, wondering if he still has that isolated EMP bomb Hansen gave him just in case this is some sort of kill bot. He also wonders if it would even work against an O.S.I. kill bot or if the parent agency had a failsafe in place to protect against that tactic. He's having an internal argument with himself on that one, also still trying to remember just wear in the fuck that chip is, when the jet lands and Brock is heading for the door.

"Park the bird, Sky Pilot. You two flank." He doesn't look back as he makes that order. Brock knows—trusts implicitly—that they will listen. And they do, of course they do. One quick glance between the three of them is all that's spared before Shore Leave and Gary are following him out into the warm June air.

It's one of the longest walks of his life, those few yards between the jet and the ominous motorcycle man/possible robot. Neither he nor Shore Leave are being subtle with the threatening aura; his wrist blades are still open and Shore Leave's hand is on his gun. Not that they can tell if their gimmick is working or not, a helmet does quite a bit to mask any sort of twitches and tells, even more so when the target stands to attention and salutes Brock's approach. Gary notes the weapons it carries; two M1911-A1s holstered at its hips, a knife in its boot, and whatever might be in the various pouches on its utility belt.

"Commander Samson." The voice doesn't sound robotic but it _is_ muffled a bit by the helmet and its sealed, reflective visor.

Brock tosses his nearly used up cigarette into the grass. "At ease, soldier. S.P.H.I.N.X. doesn't do formal and I don't have time for it." His arms cross. "Why don't you just tell me who you are and why all this clutter's on my lawn?"

The salute goes away but the rigid form stays. "Right." Off pops the helmet and in a swish of dark brown hair, Gary's suspicions of a robot are (mostly) dashed.

It's a woman, which surprises him. A lot and _yes_, Gary is a little ashamed of the fact and what it says about gender equality in the workforce. He hasn't seen many female agents in the O.S.I., but then again, Gary's dealings with the O.S.I. have been fairly limited.

"I'm Special Agent Samantha Sloane." Without the helmet, her voice is low and clear, maybe a little bit cold too. That could just be the stare, though. Special Agent Samantha Sloane has some frosty blue-gray eyes. She's not glaring or anything, but there is serious winter wind swirling in those irises. One of her scowls might just be able to freeze somebody solid. "General Gathers has assigned me as the S.P.H.I.N.X. Sentinel. I've brought a unit of additional agents to add to your ranks—your approval pending, of course—the new budget for you to look over, and expansion plans for the base."

About two seconds tick by where _nothing_ happens, the world is absolutely still. Zach Snyder cheesy slow-motion still. Gary can't read the look on Brock's face—Brock's face is often like that, though, so no loss—but judging by Shore Leave's slack jaw and high eyebrows, none of what Agent Sloane just said was expected. Or welcome, either, in all probability.

"What's a Sent—"

Gary's question is crushed by Brock.

"Hunter never said anything about nailing us with a watchdog." He says it like a threat more than a statement, something that Gary is sure only Brock can do with such ease. Agent Sloane is to be given credit, though, because she doesn't cringe under the ice in his eyes. Maybe because she's got a blizzard going on in her own, but still, credit where credit is due.

Agent Sloane, however, does not give Brock a reply. That comes from a source even more formidable than Gary's commander.

"That's because I knew you'd foam at the mouth and try to argue me down if we didn't do it in person."

Despite only meeting General Gathers twice, Gary would still recognize his voice just about anywhere. It ranks just behind Dr. Mrs. The Monarch's in unique gravely texture to Gary's memory. And now, apparently, Gathers has a pair of cupcakes to rival hers as well.

"What the shit?" comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Luckily, nobody is even paying attention to him because Shore Leave is _way_ louder.

"Oh. My. _God_. You were not kidding about that woman screaming inside."

"Don't be an infant." Hunter's five o'clock shadow is _disturbing_ with perky C-cups. And his new ponytail. _And_ his lipstick.

Goddamn especially that lipstick.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gary sees Brock's cold rage has quickly turned to serious discomfort.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Brock asks, "Did you…Did you go all the way back?"

Gathers appears nonplussed by the question. "Yep. And yes, feminine pronouns _are_ my goddamn preference. Now let's get a move on." Gathers' fists fly to his—_her_—narrow hips in that familiar, authoritative manner. One thing that hasn't changed. Well, along with the cigarette and the shades. "Samson, me and you are gonna hash this out in conference. Sloane, startup integration and play nice. You're making an impression, girly."

"Sir, yes, sir." It doesn't come out as a zealous boom, but Sloane does salute again causing the furrows return to Brock's forehead.

"You're assuming I'll agree to this."

Gathers, already heading for the entrance, doesn't even look back. "By the time I'm done barking at you, you will. Now come on, you behemoth, we're wasting daylight."

Brock balks, mouth curled in the onset of a snarl that can't quite form because he's so frustrated that he can't find the words. It's not a good look for him, or anyone it falls on, for that matter, as Gary, despite knowing that Brock almost certainly wouldn't kill him, finds his legs taking him back a few feet _just in case_. Shore Leave doesn't flinch but there is a certain tenseness to his jaw that says he isn't too comfortable either.

Agent Sloane, again, makes it apparent that she's earned her place as a Sentinel (whatever that is exactly) because when the scowl comes at her, _she_ barely blinks. In fact, her arms cross over her chest and an eyebrow goes up. It's a silent "whatever, bro" that precious few have the stones to express.

If that pisses Brock off further, it can't be determined because Gathers is growling, "Move your candy ass, Samson!" at him. Brock obeys because Gathers is the only person alive who can order him around, though he stomps off with copious amounts of swearing beneath his breath.

There are a few awkward seconds that pass by in the wake of that less than…_cheerful_ exit, where Gary, Shore Leave, and Agent Sloane continue to stand silently on the lawn. Shore Leave ends it quick enough, though, just as Gary knew he would. Shore Leave is _always_ good for cutting the air. And quips. And shitty nicknames.

"Shore Leave, nice to meet you." He holds out his hand and smiles, a proverbial peace offering.

It's a little bit like an iceberg melting when Agent Sloane smiles and wraps her fingers around Shore Leave's palm. That tense military air she's swathed in unravels and her eyes get bluer and less gray. It isn't as if a halo erupts around her head or anything, but Gary doesn't have the impulse to pull a parka on anymore, and that's saying a _lot_.

"Thanks, the feeling's mutual, sir; I've heard good things."

"Of course you have." He cocks his head to the side as their hands part, as if examining her all over again. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be any relation to Sonia Sloane, would you?"

There is look that crosses Agent Sloane's face that both says she's heard that question before and that she should have expected it now. It's brief, just a flicker, but Gary notes it nonetheless. Maybe because emotions showing up on her face after he was so sure she didn't _have_ them is goddamn fascinating.

"I would, in fact; I'm her daughter."

Shore Leave's eyebrows shoot up. "Get _out_! I didn't know the Blade had kids!"

Shrugging, Sloane's smile goes down a notch or two in warmth. "Just the one. Or at least as far as I know."

His excitement blinds Shore Leave to the subtle cues that Agent Sloane isn't crazy about talking about her mother. "Oh my god. I bet you hear how you look just like her all the time, don't you?"

"More than I could probably ever say, sir." She shifts a little, adjusting her bike helmet from the crook of one arm to the other. It reads like Brock's neck rubbing, even if her face doesn't contort another inch.

"So what's a 'Sentinel'?" Gary asks before Shore Leave can put his foot farther into his mouth.

The corner of Agent Sloane's mouth quirks back up as she and Shore Leave look over at him. His intervention is apparently appreciated.

Like with all questions, whether or not they've were directed at him, Shore Leave has an answer and he's eager to share. "Elite watchdogs for O.S.I. brass, like Brock said. Well, partially. Big partially but not all."

Agent Sloane gives a quick nod, swiping some of her messy bangs out of her eyes in the process. Tucking the hair behind her ear, Gary spies three rings going down the shell, two in the lobe, and a tattoo peeking out from behind though he can't tell what it's of. "We're eyes and ears for the agency head and take care of whatever they need us to. Right now, my job is to act as liaison between General Gathers and S.P.H.I.N.X."

"But what does that mean exactly?" Gary is not afraid to have that answered. No, he is not.

Okay, he really kind of is.

"Paperwork," Agent Sloane says with a tone about as damp as the Sahara. "A literal fuckton of paperwork. Pardon the expression." She doesn't actually sound like she cares about the pardon. However, she _does_ start caring about whom she's currently speaking to because an eyebrow goes up and her arm extends toward him. "Hi, and you would be?"

"Uh, Gary." He's a little bit slow but Gary's mostly just happy he doesn't start stuttering. De-thawed as she might be, Agent Sloane is still super intimidating. "Gary Stewart."

She nods, as if his name is familiar to her already. Understandable, given what she says next. "Right, the convert from the butterfly guys."

"The Monarchs." Those words taste less bitter than they did the first few time saying them post resignation, but they still don't slide so well off Gary's tongue. He's not even sure why he offered the correction.

Agent Sloane doesn't seem to mind. Or care. She only nods again. "Yeah, them. Well, welcome to the other side. Hope you're liking it."

Gary isn't sure how to respond to that simplistic remark. It's small talk; a short sentence surrounding a yes or no which is the most that he needs to give and the most that Agent Sloane expects. That insignificant thing though has him nose-diving into an existential moment.

Is he happier now? What the hell is the definition of happy? What's the definition of _liking_ something?

Fuck, there are actual moments where Gary misses working his problems out via hallucination.

In the split second that he short circuits and can't think of a response, Shore Leave demonstrates that little superpower of his yet again. The superpower being the unsettling ability to save Gary from himself at the most appropriate time.

Shore Leave's arm slings across Gary's shoulders, while the knuckles on the opposite hand rap hard against his helmet. "He is doing _fantastic_!" the senior agent proclaims. "Best sidekick I ever had."

It's only Agent Sloane's lack of laughter that keeps Gary from tossing Shore Leave over his shoulder and across the lawn. That and a little voice at the back of his head that, like a traitor, continuously reminds him that Shore Leave is kind of responsible for his cool new job. Also, they're friends now. Kind of.

_Sidekick _though? Fucking really?

"Well, while the brass has their pissing contest is there any chance that I could get a facility tour?" Sloane half-turns as she taps something on her wrist, it looks a little bit like the communicators that the Venture team sports. Only, well, less hokey and more edgy, modern tech-ish. Whatever it is (and Gary _will_ be asking about it later) it pops her motorcycle seat up and she stashes her helmet in the revealed compartment before another quick flick to her wrist thingy brings the seat back down. "I'd _really_ like to get started. I wasn't kidding about the fuckton of paperwork I've gotta do for this merger."

Shore Leave smirks, removing his arm from around Gary. "Are you willing to hand over your weapons?"

The smile that slides over Agent Sloane's lips is reminiscent of something straight out of _Shark Week_. "Sure. Put a bullet hole between my eyes and you can even have my grandfather's lucky army knife and rodeo belt too."

Only a second ticks by between those words and Shore Leave's response, but it's a _long_ second. A scary second. A Gary-is-legit-convinced-they're-gonna-have-to-figh t-this-lady kind of second.

"All right then, you went and got those ovaries steel-plated. Very nice." Shore Leave laughs and waves her toward the S.P.H.I.N.X. entrance. "After you, Blade Two."

The frost returns to Agent Sloane's eyes, a howling and swirling Antarctic storm that would have made Gary buckle had it come at him.

"My _name_ is Sam," she informs Shore Leave with a wicked tick in her jaw. "Or Sloane, if you can't handle that."

Gary swallows back the urge to tell her that, yeah, that's not really going to work, he should know because _he's_ tried, but that seems suicidal. Besides, she turns on the heel of her combat boot right after she that comes out of her mouth, leaving he and Shore Leave to follow like she doesn't give two fucks about covering her back.

Instead, he shakes his head at Shore Leave as he starts walking after Agent Sloane. His gut says the last thing she'll be doing is staging a coupe but Brock'll be totally pissed if they let her waltz around the facility alone. At least before Gathers has finished convincing him. "Dude, take a hint before the bullets start flying. _Please_."

**{This Is The Self-Important Story Break, Pay It No Mind}**

Hunter has given Brock a lot of reasons to rethink their friend/mentorship and it _isn't _just the sex change. Again.

In a way, he gets _that_. Sort of. However, the last time Hunter got himself a pair of tits and a vagina slapped on, he'd started an upheaval on Brock's entire world. Grateful as he was in the end for the change, he still can't say he's looking forward to the chaos all over again. It's why he goes for the throat once they're sealed behind the doors of his (formerly Hunter's) office.

"Why the Sentinel?" he demands, too pissed off to even grab another cigarette and, _fuck_, does he want one. "What'd I do to make you doubt I was gonna handle this right?"

Hunter's retort is flawless as usual. "You were born human, same as everyone else." He—_she_ (he's really going to have to work at remembering the pronoun thing) sits down on the Brock's desk like she still owns it. Technically, she does, what with the merger, but the point is it's _his_ now. "And I didn't put the little monkey on your back just so she could see and hear some evil then tattle to me about it." His—_her _(goddammit) fist thumps the desk and sends several pens flying into the air then rolling onto the floor. "She'll be useful to you. I wouldn't send a pair of eyes and no teeth or claws to back it up."

"She's a child," Brock growls. That's probably not true, Agent…shit he forgot her name. He was so ticked he hadn't paid any attention to what the girl called herself. Anyway, she probably isn't _that_ young. "You're shoving me with a babysitter who's a fucking baby herself."

Hunter's defense doesn't really do much defending. "Thirty pushing one ain't that far behind you, Land O' Lakes."

The lack of defense for the babysitter part is noted and tucked into for later reflection/resentment. "Fourteen years is pretty far from where I'm standing," he counters, wishing again for a cigarette but not touching his twitch hands to go anywhere near that pocket. It's too close to his gun and the more that Hunter talks the more Brock's fists itch. "What qualifications does she have? I've never heard of her, how'd she even make it to Sentinel status?"

A rough growl rumbles in Hunter's throat a sound that even Brock knows not to ignore. "_You_ haven't heard of her because you've been disavowed for going on two years and the sixteen before that you were playing super nanny."

Hunter squashes the smoldering stub of her cigarette on the tongue of her boot. "The loop ain't been somethin' you've been party to for a long ass time, boy-o, and don't pretend that you were just because you've got your panties twisted." Another cigarette comes out along with a friend. She flicks the spare at Brock. "Put that in your mouth already. They can hear your teeth grinding in Winnipeg."

Brock follows the order but only because he _really_ needs some nicotine. And also because it's his favorite brand and Hunter's lighter is at the ready.

A few moments pass as he inhales the sweet, smoggy comfort. It's calming, somewhat, Brock still has the bubbling temptation to smash something but that's normal for him.

"Sloane's good." Hunter finally breaks the silence in an almost mild tone. "Focused, sharp, smart enough to speak up when there's a point to be made and even smarter at keepin' to herself when there isn't." Hunter's hand dips into her jacket and comes out with a manila folder with the O.S.I. logo stamped onto the front. She tosses it to Brock.

"Her file." Hunter doesn't need to say it; he can read the name "Samantha Sloane" printed on the tab. "If my vote doesn't mean anything take a gander at that."

There are a lot of things that Brock is good at. A _whole_ lot. The list of things he can't do is infinitely smaller than the things he can. One of the things he is bad at, though, is ignoring the truth even when he wants to. Samantha Sloane _does_ have an impressive resume. Top notch entrance scores, mission statements, even a commendation from Treister. All of those, however, start paling when his eyes flick across her personal info.

"Sonia?" He wants to punch his own nose in for letting that surname slip by unnoticed. "Sonia Sloane was her mother? _Our _Sonia. The Blade? Sonia the Blade has a kid?"

Eyes hidden behind aviators or not, the smug gleam in them is still present as Hunter crosses her arms. "Yep. Also, don't bring that up to her. Touchy subject. _Really_ touchy. I hear tell at least two senior agents are carrying lead in their asses after talkin' Sonia up too much in front of the girl."

Brock scratches his head. "I don't remember Sonia ever saying anything about a kid. Didn't even think she liked 'em."

There's a nod. "Absolutely abhorred the little bastards," Hunter says. "Her own runt was a different story, though."

"You knew?"

"Not until a few years ago. That was Sonia, though; nothin' she didn't play close to the vest. Friends, family, and lovers included. Don't get hurt over it."

Scowling, Brock resists the urge to smack Hunter square on the nose with the dossier. It's a quickly abating urge as his mentor shifts just a little so that her head dips and he can see just see her eyes above her sunglasses. He's familiar with that hard, beady stare, this one in particular. It pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Listen." As if he could do anything else when Hunter's nailing him to the floor with that stare. "_Maybe_ I didn't decide to stick the girl here just to peek over your shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, it's killing two birds with one crafty rock."

"What are you—?"

"Finish reading her bio, numb nuts," Hunter barks.

Since Hunter is in rare, ultra-serious form at the moment, and because the nicotine is really starting to kick in, Brock complies. He sighs his most put-upon sigh and rolls his eyes as he does it but he does it nonetheless. What he finds, in the lowermost right hand corner of Samantha Sloane's dossier just about shorts-out the fine synapses in his brain.

"Holy shit." Two words that do not adequately describe his surprise _at all_ and yet somehow encompass every inch of it.

Hunter is smirking but it isn't the usual self-satisfied, curl that grates on Brock's nerves. No, this is dry, maybe even apprehensive if Brock believed the stone-cold old bitch could be apprehensive.

He holds up the dossier. "Does she…?"

"Know?" Hunter shifts, uncrossing her arms and then clasping them behind her back as she stands ramrod straight. "Well, that depends on if her C.O. finds fit to tell her. What do you think?"

* * *

**Voice Actor Fancast**

Special Agent Samantha Sloane: Laura Bailey


	2. Hard Pills To Swallow

Disclaimer: The Venture Bros. and their universe are the property of Jackson Public, Doc Hammer, Astrobase Go, and the Cartoon Network. In other words, I do NOT own the majority of these characters, so, please, don't sue me. The few OCs popping around are mine but considering they're part of a fanfiction, I'm sure there's not much to be done with them.

Author's Notes: Sorry about the delay. I lost my computer for awhile.

* * *

The hub is uncharacteristically quiet as Shore Leave, with Gary trailing along because he's nosy, shows the facilities off to Agent Sloane. The other agents are twitchy, making themselves scarce; they don't trust the unexpected arrival of General Gathers and her entourage. Gary doesn't exactly blame them, what with their being only recently un-disavowed by their parent agency, but that doesn't make the lack of noise any less creepy. Which, actually, can also be said for the way that Agent Sloane follows along, nodding and typing a random note into her little wrist computer-thingy.

"And that's really it, aside from Brock's office." Shore Leave finishes up their tour, coming full circle at the main entrance. "We _had_ a submarine we kept farther in on the Venture compound but we kind of tanked that helping out the Doc."

Sloane nods. "Yeah, Gathers mentioned that. Her words were…_more colorful_ but she did mention it. I've put in requisitions for a replacement, a boat, and a new jet already, by the way. I just need Commander Samson's go-ahead for delivery."

"I don't suppose you can get _that_ monstrosity taken away?" Shore Leave gestures to the big sphinx sitting off to the side, unused and unwanted save for when it announces a perimeter breach. "It's creepy as fuck when it goes off."

Eyeing the alarm up and down, the look on Sloane's face says she can imagine and concurs. "I will see what I can do. Or at least maybe find you a jackhammer."

"Ooh, I am liking you more and more, Samamander." The sentiment is reinforced by a hearty pat on the back. The back pat Sloane doesn't seem to mind, the nickname is more questionable and she looks over at Gary, as if to wordlessly ask "What the hell just came out of his mouth?"

"Don't fight it," he advises her. "For real, he'll just come up with stuff you hate even more. It's his gift."

Sloane doesn't miss a beat. "It should come with a receipt."

Shore leave _also_ doesn't miss. "Aww, look at you. I tell you, sweetie, I wish your mommy would've sent me some baby pictures; I bet your little fangs were _adorable_."

With her upper lip curling Sloane looks like she just might show some fang right now. Her retort, whatever form it may come in, however, expires a prematurely as Brock's office swings open and out he stomps along with Gathers. Back comes the iron spine and blank face as Sloane stands expectantly to attention.

The questions sitting at the back of Gary's tongue don't have long to stew because right out of the gate, Brock is whistling and gesturing for the entire unit to gather round. As he and Shore Leave approach, (and Sky Pilot, though, when, how, and where he came back exactly Gary has no idea) Gary notes Gathers nodding behind him, presumably at Sloane. He's right, of course (who else would it be?) and turns his head long enough to see her salute then march toward the exit. The paranoid side of him believes this would be the perfect time for her to come back with a death squad and mow them down. The not-completely-insane side of him doubts that that will happen.

Still, Gary double checks where his guns and ammo are and takes a place to the side where he can keep one eye on the door.

"All right, kids, got some news." Not the most optimistic start to a speech, but then Brock's face is back to being impassive, so he's probably not _too_ upset with whatever Gathers had to say.

Probably. Man, Gary _really _hopes not; Brock is the worst to work with in a mood.

"We're getting some better funding and extra men. And some better equipment. _And_ because it's all coming out of the O.S.I.'s pocket book we're also gonna have a few new regulations." The full scale uproar Gary half-expects is only a ripple of murmurs sweeping through the twenty-five or so men standing in the room. He's not sure if that's a relief or not. Or maybe the sex change has just thrown them all so off-kilter that outrage can't be tapped at the moment. "So, you know, that's what's going on with all this crap." He glances over at Gathers with less than enthusiastic shrug. "You wanna…?"

Gathers shakes her head. "Good God, boy, that speech was so full of suck that you might as well've had Ben Stein give it." Another headshake and she's standing tall, hands locked at the small of her back. "All right, listen up, maggots. First off, your mission hasn't changed. S.P.H.I.N.X. is still here to deal with the dirty stuff. However, if the O.S.I. is gonna give the budget around here a facelift and I'm gonna keep those ass-clowns in the bureaucracy off my back in the process, some concessions are gonna have to be made. It's mostly useless, paperwork, bullshit, malarkey but if you all wanna keep this agency afloat, you'll come to heel quick and get on with saving the world. And, most importantly, I won't have to waste any more of my precious time trying to place you sad bastards back into O.S.I. ranks if you don't. Any questions?"

Almost every hand in the room shoots up and Gary sees a vein jump in Gathers' jaw.

"Any _not_ about my sex change, you judgmental pricks?" All of the hands go down. "Good. Sloane, front and center!"

Reentering the room at the exact moment that Gathers barks Sloane doesn't break her stride going straight the General's side. She's followed by a group of men and women, most of who are dressed in simple military fatigues and carrying duffle bags. By Gary's head count, there are seventeen. The two not dressed like soldiers and lacking that certain military clunk to their steps, are a woman and a man. The man wears a suit and carries a briefcase; the woman has a digital tablet and short heels. Both wear I.D. tags and O.S.I. clearance badges in plain sight, though Gary can't exactly read what's printed on them from where he's standing. Like the others, those two gather in a neat row behind Sloane.

Saluting, Sloane answers Gathers with the standard, "Sir, yes, sir," while Brock rolls his eyes from the general's other side. Yeah, whatever this is, Brock is not a fan.

"Get to it," Gather's orders with a short nod before whirling to face Brock. "Try not to be too much of a dick with this, will ya? I've got other shit to do, and no time to play mommy."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." The cigarette in Brock's mouth twitches from one corner to the other.

Another one of those tense, this-could-go-very-very-_very_-wrong-really-fucking-quick moments passes as Gathers continues eyeballing Brock, and Brock stares right back at her. Finally, though, the right side of Gathers' mouth quirks up and she swivels away, marching for the main entrance.

"Carry on, children, I'll see you soon." That's all she says before she's gone and the sound of warming jet engines thrums through the air. Sloane doesn't waste time.

"Okay, gentleman, let's get this done." Far back as he is, even Gary can see that her eyes have returned to the cold stone color that they were outside. "All you former O.S.I. boys know how things usually go with employment, salary, and all that basic stuff. So to reinstate your 401Ks, get your re-enlistment bonuses, and the process you already know, you're going to see Mr. Davis," one of her hands motions to the man in the suit, "_after_ the new recruits see him for initial set up. He's your new permanent accountant. In the meantime, you'll all report to the new S.P.H.I.N.X. Head of Medicine Dr. Carrey. Dr. Carrey?"

One of the men in fatigues steps forward. Bald, coffee-skinned, with neatly trimmed goatee and on the long, lanky side he still somehow appears…diminished? That's probably not the best word but it does fit well enough for a man standing so close to Brock, and especially for a man standing more or less between him and Sloane.

"Hello everyone." Apparently, frigidity isn't a must for every new person Gary's going to meet today. Unless Dr. Carrey's bright, wide smile is fake, which is quite possible. "Just call me Archie, if you would. Dr. Vulcano—" it takes Gary a minute to place who that is before he remembers the creepy Portuguese guy who left with Gathers, "—didn't keep any detailed records around about your guys' health. Actually, he kept no records at all, so, yeah. Physicals all around. Plus my intrepid intern, Shri," a small woman who looks to be about ten years or so behind most of the group, waves from just behind him, "will be handing out your temporary insurance and pharmacy cards. And…that's all I got. Take 'em back, Sammy."

The expected scowl or some other feature of disdain never appears on Sloane's face. There are no reprimands made to Dr. Carrey, there's no reaction at all other than a short, accepting nod. A person, with a nickname and perhaps a social life, exists beyond the Sentinel-ness of Agent Sloane, mindboggling though it may be.

"Okay I'll need a senior agent to show the newbies to the locker room then get Archie to the medical bay after he suits up, any takers?"

"Ooh! Ooh! Pick me!" Maybe because everyone knew he was going to do it, or more likely, because the other senior agents just don't care, Shore Leave's hand is alone in the crowd.

If she's annoyed with the way he volunteers Agent Sloane doesn't show it. She only nods and continues with her briefing. "Right. I've got one last thing." Half turning, Sloane's thumb jerks toward the woman in the short heels. "O.S.I. regulations stipulate that a trained psychiatric specialist be on premises for your psychological needs. This is Dr. Young, she wants you to know that her door is always open." There's the briefest pause as Sloane looks over her audience, to gage whether or not she holds their attention or their reactions is up in the air. Gary decided approximately upon meeting the woman he wasn't going to get any clear reads off of her.

"Do we have any questions?" she finally asks.

The scene is almost identical to when Gathers uttered that (similar) phrase not ten minutes before. And like Gathers, Sloane's teeth seem to be grinding ferociously as she talks herself down from a murder spree.

"_Yes_, Sonia Sloane was my mother." Those words have an edge to them not unlike Brock's bowie knife. "Let's put that one to rest. _Along with any other questions involving her which I will _not _be answering_." Someone is going to get shot. Gary feels it. Goddamn does he feel it. What he _can't_ feel is whom the bullet is going into and whether it's heading for a smart-mouth's ass or vital organs.

_Please, Shore Leave, keep your trap shut._

Mercifully, all of the hands go down and no one eats lead. The other agents have caught the scent of ozone pouring off of Sloane and realized "Oh, shit, pissing her off is possibly the worst idea of the century."

Another second ticks by as Sloane looks over the crowd one final time. Whether she's satisfied or not, she turns to Brock. "Commander?"

Surprise flickers across Brock's face, brief as it is; he wasn't expecting her to differ to him. That brings up a whole new set of questions for Gary to grill Shore Leave over when they have a second later. Not that there weren't already a bucket-load itching under his tongue.

"Yeah." He lights up a new cigarette and gives Sloane the shortest of nods. "Unless it's top priority go on and do what the secretary just told you to." And without further ado, Brock returns to the confines of his office, leaving his men to digest all of this information however they may.

As expected Shore Leave fills the awkward silence with something not-quite-but-oh-so-close-to-awkward.

Vaulting over one of the computer centers, he saunters over to Dr. Carrey—Archie? Is he allowed to call him that? Anyway, beckoning to their new head of medicine in the pseudo-flirty fashion that all of S.P.H.I.N.X. has become accustomed to but that normally has strangers making faces and stepping back. Dr. Carrey, or Archie, whichever he'll be going by around the hub, proves not to be the average kind of stranger.

That wide, LED light kind of smile appears again as he shakes Shore Leaves hand and then they're walking toward the lockers, chit-chatting about the new O.S.I.

And that's all there is to it, apparently, Gary realizes, S.P.H.I.N.X. has been integrated. Mind-bogglingly simple.

_Then again,_ he watches Sloane take a b-line through the dispersing crowd to Brock's office, _maybe not…_

**{This Is The Self-Important Story Break, Pay It No Mind}**

During his third year as a full agent, Brock had witnessed Sonia Sloane punch Treister so hard that his feet flew over his head. They'd had some…philosophical discrepancies (the polite excuse made by Hunter) over one of her assignments and Sonia's temper had gotten the better of her. She'd been punished of course, but her point had been made and there were no regrets, at least as far as Brock had been told. Sonia's hatred of red tape was a legendary thing at the agency and said hatred had been one of the very best things about her. That and her ability to sling a knife through bone at fifty paces.

So, for Brock to see so much of her, the straight line of her nose, her strong shoulders, her sharp eyes, on what is essentially a red tape merchant it's…Well, it digs at him, to put it mildly, even if he does trust Hunter's call. Enough so that he's simmering when he should probably be giving Sonia's kid _some_ attention while she yammers about red tape bullshit.

"—and, if you'd like, I have approved contractors ready to begin an expansion." Her voice is nothing like Sonia's. Sonia had a voice that was all honey and twang, she flaunted her Memphis roots. By comparison, what comes from Sam is mechanical. There is no history to her tone or hint of a soulful lilt. "I just need you to sign off and to procure a signature from Dr. Venture, so—"

He can't take it anymore. "Sit down."

Sam looks up from her j-pad and her mother flickers through again. Sonia's jaw ticked when she was on edge too. "Sir, I'm—"

"Not a request, kid." He kicks at the guest chair through the gap in his desk and stares pointedly. "Sit."

Sam obeys, she's grudging, but she still obeys. Which, actually, might piss Brock off more. Sonia would have told him to fuck off—

"Commander, I am _not_ my mother." Those words jar Brock, if only because their spot on-ness makes him question (briefly) if the woman is a mind reader. Because, shit, if his thoughts are a target Samantha Sloane is William Goddamn Tell.

"What makes you—" His knee-jerk reaction to backtrack is mercilessly cut by Sonia's "little girl".

"Because it's what every O.S.I. alum who ever heard her name is thinking when they find out I'm hers." The j-pad is tossed inelegantly on his desk as Sam crosses her arms. Gray irises glint like frost-tinted windowpanes as her glare meets his. "And, you know, I get it. My mother was a legend. Fantastic. I am _very _proud to be her daughter. But. I. Am. Not. Sonia."

She stands and her arms reverse their position to the small of her back. Ramrod straight she gives off an aura of command that makes her look like her whole body stretches to the ceiling. "Let me tell you what I told General Treister and General Gathers: I won't be indulging your nostalgia by doing things like _'_The Blade_'_ did." There's a subtle sort of disrespect in the way Sonia's codename comes off of Sam's tongue; it needles Brock but he keeps quiet. He's much more preoccupied with the teeth that the whelp's started to show.

"I have my own way, my own job and I am good at it. Fucking good, actually." Her palms are suddenly flat on Brock's desk as she bends just enough to get her face level with his. He'd be lying if he said it didn't make him want to jump. Only a _little_ but still.

"You call me a watchdog? Fine. I call me the bitch pit bull that gets to look for turncoats then gnaw a fucking arm off. You want to label me a glorified secretary?" And Brock thought she might have forgotten that jab. Nope. "That's fine too. I pride myself in my organizational and communication skills. Can't type too many words a minute but I think my acumen with firearms and the eight languages I'm fluent in make up for it."

The signals that he should _not_ goad this woman are crystal clear. It's etched in every line of a face that's as foreign as it is familiar and crackles in the air around them.

He does it anyway. Lighting a cigarette he inhales and blows the smoke out of his nostrils, straight into Sam's face. "You done, Junior?"

Sam's jaw twitches but she doesn't move. "I am. Now, would you like S.A.S.S. _Samantha_ Sloane's services, or should I call for a transfer and prop a cardboard cutout of my mother in the corner before I hit the door?"

That absolutely seals it. Brock takes another drag, making her wait a few extra seconds, because he _can_.

"Ever thought of becoming a Mister?" he asks.

The right corner of Sam's mouth tics for a few seconds before she gives in and allows it curl upward. He gets a nod and "Fuck you, sir" before she sits back down and reclaims her j-pad.

That's all that there is to it. Brock has made a truce with Sonia's little secret. He may even like her. Bureaucrat spy, watchdog, secretary, what have you, Sam's got a spine just like her mother. Less action-oriented though it may be.

Not that he'll be telling her that anytime soon. Oh no, the you-snarl-just-like-your-mom stories can wait until he sees just what she meant about her "acumen with firearms". Because if _that_ is anything like Sonia's he could very well lose something vital at this tentative stage.

Brock has to push just one last thing, however. "Seriously, your mother was a good woman." He doesn't know just why he's telling Sam this. It just needs to be said to someone or something that isn't Sonia's plaque at on the O.S.I. hellicarrier. Her eyes narrow, just a bit, but she doesn't seem angry (yet) so Brock continues. "I respected her. A lot. And I miss her."

A _whole _lot.

Sam nods and there's something solemn about the way she says, "Me too."

They might just be having a moment or something. Or they would if he didn't follow it up with, "So, you picked an interesting career choice for someone trying to stay out of a shadow."

The smirk Sam wears deepens, though she doesn't look up from her j-pad and whatever she's typing into it. "Yeah, well, funny thing. Until I joined up, there was no shadow." A short laugh slips past her lips. "That's what I get for rooting in Momma's closet, I guess."

That piques his curiosity but Brock waves it down. It's got the feel of a whole different can of worms, one he's not privy to. Yet.

"Okay, so, do I have your approval on the base expansion?" she asks. "Because I have ten more things I need to run past you before I can really get to work."

Brock leans back, setting his feet on the desk without breaking eye contact. "Did Hunter O.K. them already?"

She nods. "Yeah, she said—"

"Then go ahead and push all of them through." Fishing out a new cigarette to replace the dying cherry between his lips, Brock does _try_ not to look too smug at Sam's surprise. He's almost definitely failing at it, though.

"I—even the agent transfers?"

Having never had the wiles to get one over on Sonia it's oddly satisfying to take her daughter by surprise. Maybe it shouldn't be. He's going to have to work at giving the kid a chance like he's going to have to work at keeping Hunter's new preferred pronouns straight.

"Yep. I trust Hunter. H—She's a crafty old shit but she doesn't play head games over this sort of stuff." Not unless she's bored, of course, but hopefully that's not a thing he'll have to worry about, what with her still reigning in control of the O.S.I. "Go on then, Junior." He waves her toward the door like he can remember her mother doing to him more than once. "Take care of all your business like a good secretary-pit bull."

Surprise lingers for just a few seconds more on Sam's face before her mouth bows upward at the right and she dips her head in a brisk nod. "Understood, sir." She salutes and maybe it's the hint of a smile still in play but he thinks the gesture is sincere in its respect, not just the motion of an agency automaton.

That could just be sentimentality kicking in, though. In any case, he finds himself saluting back before she takes her leave.

* * *

**Voice Fancast**

Special Agent Samantha Sloane—Laura Bailey

Dr. Archie Carrey—Donald Faison


	3. Take Some Getting Used To

Disclaimer: The Venture Bros. and their universe are the property of Jackson Public, Doc Hammer, Astrobase Go, and the Cartoon Network. In other words, I do NOT own the majority of these characters, so, please, don't sue me. The few OCs popping around are mine but considering they're part of a fanfiction, I'm sure there's not much to be done with them.

* * *

If Gary had thought Sloane worked like a robot, then he has no words for how Accounting Agent (yep, that is apparently a realjob title) Davies conducts himself. Super-Robot, maybe? No, that's awful. Mathematical Terminator? Yeah, now _that_ has a ring to it and it's wicked apt considering how fast he processed Gary. Seriously, he was in the chair across from Davies for about ten minutes before they were done and he was sent to med-bay for inspection.

Davis' actual words: "for inspection", as if Gary was some part on a factory line. Those words come out and an understanding of Brock's mistrust really crystallizes. The O.S.I. may be _the_ institution of heroes, spies, and super-soldiers but the trappings that come with being an institution, well, they chuff, to say the least. Gary can only hope that this is the worst of it.

His visit with Dr. Carrey proves to be a bright spot, though, even if the rest of the day goes to shit.

The med-bay, which is basically the basement of the building, is mostly empty when the elevator doors open onto it. He was the last of the "new" guys to see Davis and of that batch there were only five or so to begin with. Given the everybody's-getting-physicals edict made earlier, it's a tad off-putting.

Maybe it's just the venue; Gary's never been crazy about the place, but that may have more to do with Dr. Vulcano creeping up the place than anything else. Seriously, _fuck_ that dude. He looked like he belonged in a jungle doing experiments on wildlife rather than looking after human beings.

"Hello!" Dr. Carrey's intern, Gary forgets her name, scares the bejesus out of him by popping up out of nowhere while he's doing his look-around. He's not sure what's sadder, that he got startled at all or that he somehow missed a girl with neon-pink hair until she was right in front of him.

Seriously, her head is a _beacon_. If the lights go out and it doesn't glow, he'll be disappointed.

The young woman, oblivious to the fact that she nearly got herself shot, thrusts a j-pad into his hands. She has a smile on her face that could not be more disingenuous if she tried. It's kind of like the beaming saleswomen at perfume counters do, broadcasting how much they don't actually care along with how ignoring them could get you in a body bag. "Here you go! Just swipe your thumb for system recognition. We'll get your sample and your scan done as soon as you're in."

"Sample and scan?"

"Yeah, just standard procedure and stuff." The intern has Amanda Seyfried-esque eyes, off-putting in their largeness. That and the disinterested gleam to those copper disks bothers him.

"Well, could you tell me what the 'standard procedure' is all about because _I've_ never done it before."

Intern's (he can't remember her name, so she's that to him now) jaw drops. "Oh my god, _really_?" He _hates_ the way that that sentence comes out of her mouth. Absolutely abhors it. She could not have packed in more shame for him if she'd been trying. "Shit, what kind of lame-ass healthcare did they have at your old job?"

Yeah, Gary thinks he's going to shoot her. He's going to be fired from the coolest job ever for shooting a smart-assed kid.

His job is saved, however, by Dr. Carrey (who also pops up out of nowhere) and his own j-pad which connects solidly with the back of Intern's head. On the good doctor's face is the most I-am-having-none-of-this-shit look that Gary has seen since the Monarch kicked the Pupae Twins out of his house. This is nearly as satisfying too.

"Ouch!" She covers her radioactive head, ducking away like a puppy.

"This is why you're doing you're internship here and not a real hospital!" the doctor all but growls. Another sound whack lands on Intern's shoulder. "No fucking bedside manner! Go watch the computers. _Now_."

"Aww!" Her disdain comes out in a high-pitched whine; as if she had just been denied a cookie or something. The j-pad gets her back and she flees with a pout.

Dr. Carrey shakes his head as he watches her go. "Fucking kid." Turning back to Gary, he offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry, dude. Nineteen-year-olds shouldn't be given medical degrees, what can I say?"

Gary does a double take between the doctor and the girl now sulking in front of several large screens. "Nineteen? Shit, _really_?"

The other man nods and there's no shortage of cynicism in his gray-green eyes now. "Yep. Shri's like, a genius, or some shit. Agency had to have her before the Guild called dibs." Another scowl is thrown at Shri. "Personally, I woulda just let 'em have her ass. Anyway."

A hand is held out to Gary which he takes, shaking. He notes, as mahogany fingers wrap firmly around his palm, that there's a wedding band resting on his hand. There's a Mrs. Dr. Carrey out there. Or maybe a Mr. Dr. Carrey. Unless a dude is as flamboyant as Shore Leave, Gary has absolutely no Gaydar to speak of.

"You probably heard it upstairs but just for fun, I'm Dr. Carrey, Archie if you would. Sorry again that my intern's a little shithead." The grin that blooms on Archie's face is both kind and just a little worn. It's genuine, Gary likes it at once, likes this man at once.

"Gary, and it's okay." He glances back at Shri who now is now sulking and texting on an expensive looking phone. "Well, mostly."

Archie catches what he's looking at and a belabored sigh rumples the smile. "Fuckin' kids. Seriously. I don't even care about how old that makes me sound." There's a moment or two as his fingers zip across his j-pad/intern smacker before holding it out to Gary. "Okay, you're gonna swipe your thumb on her, it's going to recognize you if you're in the system—which, you probably _aren't_ going to be, because _why_ would Vulcano have done that tiny, insignificant thing for me?—and then you're going to sit over there and wait to have bio-scan and a blood sample done."

"What's a bio-scan?" Gary asks even as he touches his thumb to the center of Archie's j-pad. As the good doctor predicted, the words "Not Recognized" flash in red across the screen. Archie, making a murder face at the j-pad (most probably envisioning Dr. Vulcano as he does), gestures across the lab.

Daniels, the so-far (should he count Shri? Gary is hesitant to count Shri. Both because she's a pain _and_ her status as an intern) youngest member of team S.P.H.I.N.X. is standing in his briefs on a disc with a six foot diameter, just a few inches thick. Above him floats a matching disc from which flare thousands of thin, blue strips of light. The lasers pulse rhythmically, not at all unlike a heartbeat, and create a very low, buzzing tattoo. On a not-so-wild hunch, Gary would say that whatever those lights are doing is being translated onto the screens in front of Shri. In any case, it is all cool as fuck to watch.

"Sonic and infrared," Archie explains, smile back in place. Probably due to the fact that Gary can't keep his jaw up. "These babies'll replace cat-scans soon. Take off the armor, boots, and anything metal that isn't internal before you hop on." Gary gets a clap on the shoulder before Archie is on his way, barking something at Shri about working while she's at work and confiscating her cell phone.

Undressing while watching straight-up sci-fi medical technology is a little difficult, but Gary manages to strip to his boxers without tripping. He has a close call working on his left boot, but he chalks that to the need to flinch when Shri is charged with getting his blood sample. She's less of an abrasive little shit with a syringe, though, thank Christ. Tourniquet, swab, prick, pump, then slap a Band-Aid on; maybe it's the physician's version of Easy Mac, though, there's just no logical way to fuck it up.

Daniels and Claremont both get through the bio-scanner by the time that Gary's undressed and folded his clothes, so it's only Reed, Belton and the two doctors in the room when he turns around. Less of a crowd or not, he isn't spared the _super_ awkwardness of remembering that there's not only the ridiculous "Hench4Life" stamped across his gut but also a _fucking_ _butterfly tramp stamp_ he's never gotten around to removing. Both are hideous reminders of wasted youth and now they're out, in front of his co-workers with washboard abs and a smirking nineteen-year-old that he really wants to punch.

The guys don't say anything, they've been in the locker room with him, they already know. Hell, Shore Leave's made so many bull's-eye jabs about the tramp stamp he literally cannot blush about it anymore. Still, Gary's never had to just hang out with the tattoos showing and especially not with an intern so obviously giggling at them twenty feet away. It's worse than high school.

Luckily, Archie and his fantastic bedside manner pull him over the hump of his reemerging self-consciousness.

"Oh so _you're_ the one who used to Hench." He says it cheerfully enough, but it's the rap on the head he gives Shri (with her own damn phone, no less) in passing that really sells it. Gary might just love Archie as much as he does Shore Leave and they haven't even known each other ten minutes.

He also may dislike Shri as much as the Moppets but, oh well, there had to be a karmic trade-off somewhere.

Gary snorts a laugh, resisting the urge to fold his arms and cover up the ink. "What gave it away?"

"Your glossy hair, of course. I always heard that optimum hair and nail hygiene were a _must_ for every professional henchman." Gary laughs and Archie shoos Shri away from the computer station taking the stool she'd been using in the process. The girl doesn't so much as make eye contact. Apparently being smacked with her own technology was a game changer. "So they don't have good insurance on the Guild's side, eh?"

The little threads of green light in the bio-scanner fizzle out and Archie nods dismissal to Reed. One man hops off and another hops on, leaving and dressing with just a "thanks". Gary wonders what's wrong with the other agents sometimes, all of them are so disinterested in talking, not like he, Shore Leave, Sky Pilot, Brock (occasionally), and now Archie.

He shrugs. "I don't know about what kind of insurance the Guild has but I do know the Monarch's sick bay had a suture kit, alcohol, peroxide, and some tranq darts the last time I was there. And we were _lucky_ for those."

"Damn that's medieval."

Gary shrugs. "It wasn't exactly used a whole lot. Casualties outweigh wounded for Henchmen about ten to one on missions. If you were lucky enough to make it back it was probably because you ran early."

The truth in those words stings as they come up and it takes every ounce of Gary's willpower to keep from flinching.

_Sticks and stones can break your bones and the rest of that saying is bullshit._

If Archie notes something off in the way that Gary says that and turns his head—which, he probably has to, judging by the eyebrow he raises—he doesn't say anything. It can probably be chalked up to something important on the scanner read-out, because he stands to investigate, tapping the touch screen and moving things about on it. Even if that's just a feint, though, Gary appreciates it. _Especially_ if it's a feint.

Things are quiet, almost comfortably so, in-between then and the relatively brief time that it takes to complete Belton's scan. Gary's at ease enough that he doesn't feel any sort of trepidation when Archie nods for him to step up.

"Do you have any internal stuff I should know about?" Archie asks as he clears his screen, saving Belton's info in preparation for Gary's scan. "Metal rods, grafting, a plate?"

He shrugs, stepping onto the baseplate. The metal is surprisingly warm beneath his bare feet, a welcome change in contrast to cold cement. It gets even better as the bio-scanner starts warming back up and the air between the plates hums with radiant heat. It's almost like being locked in a very pleasant wind tunnel; Gary enjoys it, needless to say.

Still, he's not so lost in the sensation he forgets that the doctor needs a report. "Not unless Shore Leave did something to me when he knocked me out a couple weeks back." At Archie's raised eyebrows, Gary elaborates. "It's how I joined." The eyebrows don't go down. "I…it's a long story. Let's just leave it at that."

Archie puts his hands up. "Hey, man, it's cool, no judgments. Well," his mouth quirks up on the right, "_some_ judgments. But that's okay, you know. You'll find out weird shit about me pretty soon too and we'll have judged each other. It'll be great. Like bonding and shit."

Gary laughs, caught between trying to defend the situation and skipping straight ahead to demanding to hear about some of Archie's so-called "weird shit". Before he can do much more than open his mouth, though, the elevator doors are opening and a very agitated voice fills the whole room.

"Archie, why the actual fuck haven't you signed off my suit?!"

Maybe it's simply the fact that he hasn't exactly been exposed to working with many women over the years, that's probably a really big part of it all, but something in Gary insists on feeling floored when he catches sight of who's yelling at Archie. Well, that and the fact that she's, barefoot, in her underwear, and _hot_. And angry. And _so_ hot. Red, smoking, explosive, agonizing, slave-Leia, _hot_. And, again, super angry, which probably helps the hot part if Gary's brain could logically dissect things at this point in time.

Later he'll do that. Right now, he's just fighting to keep his mouth shut and not be an idiot.

Archie isn't fazed by Her Lady of Hotness even a little bit. In fact, his reaction to her entrance is very akin to how he looks on Shri. Annoyed, worn, and slightly homicidal. He does do a double take at her state of undress; however, there isn't even a drop of arousal there.

"Randi, why're you walking around in your drawers?" For a second it looks like Archie's going to take his lab coat off and offer it to her, whether she wants it or not, but in the end he thinks better of it. Silently, Gary praises that decision. "If Sam sees you doing this again, she'll tase you."

Her Lady of Hotness, or Randi, as is evidently her actual name (sad, Gary would call "Her Lady of Hotness" a particularly inspired epithet) makes a face that on anyone else would be decidedly unattractive. On her though, it works. She could probably make a horse shit work, though.

From where he's standing, Gary can't really make out her eye color but the rest of her is open enough. God, in more ways than one.

_Dude, you're a super spy, swooning isn't acceptable anymore._

On the pale side, her skin has a rosiness to it that makes the pale part attractive where elsewise it might have been sickly. He wouldn't peg her as very tall, five-foot-five at best, and built like a pinup girl, lush in the hips and chest. While whether or not she's wearing lipstick is debatable at this point, her mouth when Gary sees it is pink, plush, and perfectly matched to her heart-shaped face, pert nose, and wide eyes. Her hair is a white-blonde color that might just be natural and cropped asymmetrically with a long hank on the right side, the end of which is tipped in violet.

In all, she is a very pretty woman. The words that come out of her mouth, however, veer in the opposite direction.

"Fuck Sam!" Randi presents both middle fingers, to Archie, to Sam, to anyone present, who knows. She is aggressive about it though. "And fuck you! Don't try and sidetrack me, ass! Now why haven't I been approved for a strength suit?"

Archie face-palms, shoulders sagging. "Really? You wanna do this _now_? This couldn't have waited until I was done with my integration work?"

Gary didn't think that it was possible for the look Randi's wearing to become any nastier. He's wrong. "What work?" she demands. "Have your intern file your shit, that's what they're for, man! Now, why don't I have my release?"

"Miranda, I am in the middle of a bio-scan." Waving his j-pad in Gary's direction, there's a certain shiver to the movement that belays how Archie truly wants to thwack her on the head with it like he would Shri. Unfortunately, with this woman it might not work. Nope, not at all. Judging by her stance and the way she carries her weight, Randi will hit back. Quite hard, too. "Could you at least tone down the raging bitch in front of the people who don't know you yet? You'll spoil the surprise of your sweet personality."

Gary will give Archie this much; the man has stones. Like all the women he's met that day (all being three) Randi exudes a certain ferocity that beleaguers the very notion of looking at them sideways. And yet Archie baits her. How bright that is remains to be seen, but it's still impressive.

Randi whips her head toward Gary, eyes narrowing as she sizes him up for just a second. Yet again, he struggles not to recoil.

"Jesus fuck, who gives a shit?" Up go those middle fingers again, this time right in Gary's direction. "Hey, asshole, do you give a shit or does Archie need to double check your lard deposits for hair and baby teeth?"

Really, Gary should not have expected anything nice to come out of her mouth. It doesn't make what she says sting any less, but, really, he should've been prepared for some sort of acidic refuse.

And, lest he forget, he's standing mostly naked with a butterfly tramp stamp partially in view.

Under crushing waves of self-consciousness, Gary misses the elevator doors sliding apart one more time. Then again, Archie and Her Infernal Hotness (yep, new nickname) don't catch them either, so he probably shouldn't be too bothered about it. They all catch on pretty quickly, though, when Randi shrieks and drops to the ground, limbs twitching in a static buzz.

About fifty paces behind Randi's convulsing figure, Sloane holsters a stun gun. Somehow, the woman makes a blank face so much more terrifying than outright rage and Gary feels himself pitying the blonde woman. Not too much, though.

"I do believe we discussed what would happen if you had another wardrobe malfunction, Miranda." Sloane's voice is almost pleasant as she approaches, and like all things not normally scary, she's able to twist that into something cringe-worthy.

"Jesus H. Christ, Sam!" Randi sputters as she rolls onto her knees. "What the fuck voltage was that on?!" Both hands scrabble around to her back, trying to reach the two little studs that had released the charge. It's a bit of work, Sloane—undoubtedly on purpose—had hit that space right in the middle of the back that's just about impossible to reach on your own. Eventually she gets them, though, dislodging the nodules with a yelp.

"I set it to 'obnoxious'," Sloane replies breezily. "Don't tempt me to dial on up to 'cunt'." She nods over Randi's shoulder to him and Gary can't decide if he needs to hide or not. "Now, apologize to your new teammate, you were exceptionally rude to him. _And_ Archie, for interrupting his work. Then go and suit up or so help me, I will fry you."

Gary doesn't think that she'll actually do it. Randi strikes him as the type that'd take death over acknowledging she was in the wrong. Perhaps the fear of more electrocution is a stronger deterrent than even fatality, though, or maybe it's just Sloane. Gary would put his money on Sloane. In any case, the blonde stands up, wobbly for just a second or two, and dusts herself off.

"Sorry, Archie." Grudging and with grinding teeth it still comes out. She doesn't make eye contact though. "Sorry…new guy."

"Good girl." Sloane's praise is met with the silent "sit-and-spin" as Randi stomps her way to the elevator. Amazingly, the taser doesn't come out again and she's allowed the rude, sulking exit. Sloane shakes her head.

The Sentinel's mask drops as she turns to look over at Archie, the right corner of her mouth quirking up. "So, why _haven't_ you approved her for strength suit testing?"

Archie snorts, returning to his screens. "Same reason you withheld the testing info from her for so long; she's fun as hell to annoy." He cocks his head just enough so that she can't miss his grin. "That and Nicky isn't done fine tuning those shells. Better for her to be on my case than the kid's, Sammy."

"How very noble of you."

"I know, right?"

"So am I done now?" Gary wouldn't actually mind staying with Archie because the man can carry a conversation, and, unlike Shore Leave, doesn't seem like he's going to have a penchant for ridiculous nicknames. Or a knee-jerk reaction to treat Gary like a kid. Problem is, Sloane is there, and she makes him twitchy. Specifically, her taser gun makes him twitchy, after watching how she dealt with Randi.

Throwing him a thumbs-up, Archie nods. "Sure thing, dude. As Chief S.P.H.I.N.X. physician, I hereby give you a clean bill of health. Gimme a sec and I'll get you a gold star you can put on your helmet."

He laughs, slipping back just a bit into that relaxed air that had existed before Randi stormed in, despite Sloane's presence. "Sweet, can I get two? I'll put 'em on each side. It'll look like earrings."

Going from the warmth of the bio-scan platform back to cool cement is a little bit of a shock to Gary's system. Gooseflesh is instantaneous and he can't fight off one little shiver as he makes a b-line for his gear. Pulling his socks and pants on in record time, he contemplates going straight to the showers from here. He hasn't had five seconds to breathe since the flight over to Tangiers about a day and a half ago, let alone since they landed, so needless to say, Gary kind of wants to clean up.

"Do you have any pressing assignments from the Commander, Agent Stewart?" Until he looks up from tying his boots, merely by coincidence, to find gray-blue eyes watching him, Gary doesn't even realize that Sloane is addressing him. That and he's never been addressed as "Agent Stewart" before. Hell, he's pretty sure that he hasn't heard his own last name in over a decade; he's sort of forgotten he has one. Even Twenty-Four didn't know it.

"Gary." Not quite sure why he corrects her, or where the courage to do so, comes from. "Just, uh, Gary. Please."

She gives a brisk nod and waits. It takes Gary a second or two under her expectant stare to remember that she'd been asking him a question and a second more to remember the answer.

"Um, no." The high school feeling claws back at the pit of his stomach only this time it's more of a "why did the teacher pick on me?" scenario rather than a mean girls one. Gary isn't sure which he hates more. "I filed my report on are last mission before we landed and stuff so…"

_Why in the hell are you still talking?_

Another über military nod comes his way. "Good, I need someone to go with me to the Venture main complex. If you wouldn't mind."

Once again, Gary's mouth works ahead of his good sense. "Huh? Why me?" He sincerely hopes he doesn't actually sound nervous when he speaks. It's there, of course, but that doesn't mean he wants anyone to know.

Sloane surprises him with a smirk that's actually human, maybe even kind, hard as it is to believe his eyes. "I know the names of three resident agents with grounds knowledge. You, Shore Leave, and Commanders Samson." Her nose wrinkles in a not-at-all fond way. "The commander is busy and I am _not_ going anywhere with a man who insists on calling me 'Rolling Sloane', thanks."

Gary can't stop himself from laughing at that. Luckily, neither can Archie, and the other man is _much_ more vocal about it.

"'Rolling Sloane'?" Archie nearly drops his j-pad. "Holy shit, that is _perfect. _I gotta text it to Jules, she'll love it."

"Please don't encourage this."

The doctor shakes his head. "Sorry, Sammy. Well, not really but, you know." He pats her shoulder. "_Love you_."

Scowling, Sloane shrugs off the touch, albeit it all seems half-hearted. "Do not; you're a horrible best friend. Jules is my new favorite."

With a shrug and still grinning, Archie turns back to his work. "That's okay. I'll be her favorite after date night. The swirly thing trumps all."

Sloane wretches. "Ugh! Okay. Fine, I'm going. Agent—_Gary_," she catches her mistake as she finally looks back at him, "I'll be by the central terminal when you're ready." She waits for his nod of acceptance then marches to the elevator without looking back despite Archie's continued prodding.

"Aww, come on, Sammy! Don't be like that. Sammy! Why do you always roll away, Sloane?" He cackles madly at the last one and Gary can't contain a groan. That just makes Archie chuckle more. "Come on, that one was _pretty_ awesome."

"You tell yourself whatever you have to, man."

"Oh, don't worry, I will."

Comfortable silence spreads through the room again, punctured by the occasional buzz and beep from equipment. Gary finishes dressing after debating whether or not he's going to need full armor for this. He probably won't but he puts his helmet and shoulder pads back on anyway. Being a henchman did a lot to educate him in the unexpected and S.P.H.I.N.X. hasn't done anything to alter that mindset, brief as his time there has been.

"You don't need to be so nervous around her, you know." The advice comes almost as an offhand comment that, were there anyone else in the room, Gary could choose to ignore. It's too late, though, he's met Archie's eye. "Sam's got her moments of stick-up-the-ass but she's mostly pretty cool."

"You're gonna have to sell that better," he tells the other man. Why he's being honest, he's not sure. Archie just has that air of trust-worthiness, he supposes. "Especially after I watched her taser someone."

Archie laughs. "Yeah but it was _Miranda_. Everyone wants to tase her. Wait until she makes herself at home, you'll be begging Sam to shock her every ten minutes."

* * *

**Voice Actor Fancast**

Special Agent Samantha Sloane—Laura Bailey

Dr. Archie Carrey—Donald Faison

Agent Miranda Hart—Corri English

Jayashri "Shri" Krrish—Liz Sroka


	4. A Long Walk

**Disclaimer: **The Venture Bros. and their universe are the property of Jackson Public, Doc Hammer, Astrobase Go, and the Cartoon Network. In other words, I do NOT own the majority of these characters, so, please, don't sue me. The few OCs popping around are mine but considering they're part of a fanfiction, I'm sure there's not much to be done with them. I started this about a month before the season 5 premiere came along so, as you read along, you might notice that isn't following the cannon. I was kind of banking on Gary staying part of the S.P.H.I.N.X. team and, well, the S.P.H.I.N.X. team, you know, _existing_. This is why I don't ever gamble IRL with money. I'd be way poorer than I already am. Please enjoy the story.

* * *

There are several things that Gary observes about Sloane as they walk, shoulder to shoulder, towards the Venture house, trying to keep Archie's advice in mind. Things beyond the normal that comes with close proximity like how she's got an inch or two on him or the jagged scar on the underside of her chin.

The first is that she's letting him lead, she never gave him any indication to take it, but that's the pattern they fall into. Logical perhaps, but not expected after all of the in-charge attitude he's seen today. It's better explained by the other big thing that he notices: she's watching him just intently as he's watching her. Contrary to the discomfort that should probably come, Gary swells with just a little bit of pride. If Sloane's taking the time to size him up, then he's on her radar, and if her radar he did indeed make, that can't say anything bad about how he carries himself.

Second on the somewhat major scale of things that Gary notes, is Sloane's uniform. She's changed from her civilian threads into attire that's more military compliant. The motocross leather jacket has been replaced with a sleeveless vest; it's not quite as bulky as Kevlar but he'd still put money on it being bullet proof. Beneath that, there's a nondescript, long sleeved shirt, and pants to match. No pads on her shoulders, but Sloane's got her elbows and knees covered plus a pair of fingerless gloves that have a padded look to them. Her little wrist computer-thing is still there, as are the guns holstered at her hips and the boot knife. She's accessorized with a utility belt and extraneous pouches not at all unlike the ones Gary and the rest of the men have. If there's a helmet to go with her gear then she doesn't have it with her.

There's actually only one thing that makes Sloane's kit stand out; it's _all_ black. Boots, pants, shirt, vest, everything is the same sober non-color, even the metallic bits of buckle and zipper that Gary can make out. The only exceptions to the rule are the S.P.H.I.N.X. logo stamped on the back of her vest, and a circle-within-a-circle insignia near the collar that he almost misses because of the messy horsetail hanging over her right shoulder. Those are gray instead.

"So is the lack of color a statement or…?"

Why the actual fuck did he just say that?

The rolling boil of apprehension in Gary's stomach fizzles away with the last sound he expected to hear; Sloane chuckles.

"Sorry," she says when he looks at her, as if _she_ might have been the one saying something borderline offensive. "I forget a couple of you guys don't have agency intel. No, this," she tugs at her vest, "is not my personal preference. O.S.I. drones, bottom of the pyramid, wear white and blue, medical is usually marked by the green cross and their lab coats, special agents get to wear whatever variation of agency colors they want, and Sentinels are marked by the eye—" This time Sloane taps the double circle at her collar. "—and black."

"Huh. So you just carried the uniform over even though you're S.P.H.I.N.X. now?"

Shaking her head, Sloane hooks a thumb in her belt. "Not really." At the confusion Gary knows is playing across his face Sloane, to her credit, doesn't appear annoyed. Something he can't say for Brock or Shore Leave. They hadn't been awful or anything answering his questions when he first joined up, but after a while, they'd started brushing him off and he'd started keeping most questions to himself. To be fair, Gary always has a _lot_ of questions.

"I'm not S.P.H.I.N.X." For a second, just a second, Gary is scared when she says that. Legitimately, like she might just bust out and reveal she's an Infiltrator for the Guild and she's drawn him out while the agents she brought are back inside HQ massacring all of his teammates. It isn't until she continues talking that he realizes his insides actually seized up.

Fuck, he has become _paranoid_ in the last few weeks.

"Like I said earlier, Sentinels serve the head of the agency. I'm the General's, one-hundred percent; doing what she needs done, no questions, no matter where I'm posted." She offers a half-smile to him that seems genuine enough due to the fact that there's no rime tingeing the edges of her pupils. "Think of it as Internal Affairs. Or spies within a spy agency, I guess. Only, because the O.S.I. believes in being all above board, we have to let everyone _know_ we're spies."

"Really? That sounds…"

"Counterproductive?" Sloane plugs the gap he squirms to fill without insulting. "Little bit. Sometimes it's handy, though. Infamy can cloak just as well as anonymity, if you know how to wear it."

Well, that was…_poetic_. Really and truly, those are words that drip with Sun Tzu-esque wisdom and Gary can't stop himself from admiring them.

Then again, maybe he's just cracked open too many fortune cookies filled with bullshit lucky numbers. Either way, his intentions to ask her where she heard it dissolve thanks to Hatred's Marlboro rumble coming across the grass.

"Hold it, Turncoat!" The older man's gun is out. Not aimed, but out. Through of the corner of his eye, Gary watches Sloane's reaction and sees a hand slide to one of her pistols. It's impressive; if hehadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have caught her flip the holster snap back.

"Not a fan of yours?" her voice is just loud enough for Gary and Gary alone to hear.

He shrugs, answering in a tone that matches hers. "Well, I did spend a year attacking him, kidnapping his employer, and shit…_And_ maybe for about thirteen before that, my old boss had me jacking his equipment all the time."

She smiles, not just smirks, but actually smiles at that and her eyes lighten from slate to blue. It's also so quick that Gary's almost positive that it's a trick of the light. The Sentinel Mask comes back down as Hatred comes closer and she levels that frost-flecked stare of hers on him.

"S.P.H.I.N.X. territory ends about ten yards back, so why don't you and your little—" Hatred stops mid-lecture, staring at Sloane. At first, Gary assumes it's the ultra-serious-gonna-rip-your-lungs-straight-out thing that rolls off of her that does it. Then he sees she's shaken her hair back off her shoulder so that the double-circle insignia on her vest stands out clear.

"Whoa, wait a second, what the hell are you doing here with a Sentinel?" Gary almost feels bad for the old warhorse. As an ex-villain, and even worse, an O.S.I. deserter, he imagines that Hatred's association with the agency is tenuous at best. It's probably why they stowed him all the way out here with a hack scientist and two kids. Hatred's back in the fold, but only on the loosest of terms and he'll never get another trade secret from the brass as long as he lives. Not to mention, he's probably _very_ expendable to them. The panic that must be filling him up when he sees Sloane on the lawn must be excruciating.

Again, sort of sad but mostly fun to watch. Gary keeps his glee to himself, however.

"I'm, S.A.S.S. Samantha Sloane." Sloane's left hand goes to one of the pouches at her waist—just slow enough that Hatred isn't spooked—procuring an I.D. She holds it out patiently, waiting without so much as a blink or an eye roll as the Ventures' bodyguard approaches and then takes his sweet time examining it.

"I'm here on behalf of S.P.H.I.N.X." She continues when his eyes finally rise from her badge and meet hers. "Agent Hatred, I assume? I need to speak to Dr. Venture."

All of the tension that had built up in Hatred once he recognized just exactly what Sloane was gushes out in buckets. His massive shoulders sag and he starts breathing again.

He also finds his tongue again, which, as far as Gary's concerned, isn't that great.

"Whew, you had me worried for a second, Girly." Hatred holsters his gun while doing that nervous/awkward chuckle that he, for whatever reason, thinks is an icebreaker. The moment he called Sloane "Girly", he kind of fucked up breaking the ice. Or at least that's what Gary's going to assume by the jaw tic and narrowing eyes going on with Sloane does when he says it. "Sorry about the rough greeting. Gotta keep an eye out you know?" Somehow, he misses Sloane's less than amused expression and prattles on. "Sloane, huh? You wouldn't happen to be—"

It's sort of amazing to Gary how someone can manage to hit _all_ of the wrong buttons in less than five seconds. Hatred is just lucky like that, though, apparently.

"Dr. Venture, Agent Hatred." The words are razor-tipped, a perfect match for Sloane's steel-gray glare.

For a split second, Hatred is taken aback. Then, understandably, offended. Sagely, though, (and surprising) he doesn't make a comment, something that Gary's gut says has way more to do with Sloane being a Sentinel than it does her quite fearsome bitch-face.

"Right." Gary is a little surprised that Hatred can get that out, what with the way his teeth seem to be attempting to break each other. "This way." He turns with a final scowl directed at Gary (probably because he won't risk throwing it the Sentinel's way) and starts his personal version of an exit stomp. Sloane lets him get several yards ahead before she sets a slow, deliberate pace to follow.

"Wow." That's all that Gary says. That's all that he _can_ say. Never has he seen anyone shut Hatred's mouth with so little effort. Both impressive and scary. Though, to be fair, he decided about an hour ago, when Brock's scowl failed to rattle her, that was just going to be the general thing around this woman.

"Remember what I said about what Sentinels do?" He has a feeling she isn't actually _asking _him a question. But he also thinks he should answer. Just in case.

"Uh…That you're spies within a spy agency? You serve the General? Watchdogs? _Paperwork_?" He ticks everything off out loud, hoping to hit pay dirt. Apparently it works.

"That man was one of us. He was of a high enough rank that he called shots on better men." Her eyes bear a striking resemblance to polished gunmetal now and they're aimed straight between Hatred's shoulder blades. "And he spat on that position by defecting to the Guild and getting two of the most capable agents we had squirreled away to bullshit positions that kept them off his scent."

Her eyes flick to Gary and though they've lost that semi-murderous sheen that Hatred got, they're still sharp enough to send a prickle of apprehension through his innards. "Sentinels hunt crooked agents. Hatred was our order's second-worst fuck-up. It was before my time but I think I'll hold the grudge for my predecessors anyway."

That prickle becomes a full-on burn and he almost loses pace with Sloane. He completely also loses the filter on his stupid mouth. "So does that mean I'm on the Sentinel shit list too?"

Why the actual fuck did he just ask that? Because, quite frankly, if he _is_, Gary assumes it's better not to know. In fact, he envisions Sloane taking him out just for becoming aware that the Sentinels _have_ a shit list.

Weak, Gary is certainly not. He's gone toe to toe with Brock Samson—legitimately fought him—and lived. Didn't win but lived and somehow got Brock's respect in the process. Shore Leave's too, after their stint in Zero's gladiator arena. Gary is a fucking super spy.

He's got this feeling though, no, this unspoken fact, ringing in his ears, that Sloane holds her own.

And she has _really_ good aim.

Sloane pops the ever-inflating balloon of paranoia growing between Gary's ribs and stomach with a shrug of her shoulders. "You came _to_ the O.S.I., you didn't abandon it. We're gold unless I find out you're trying to play it double. Then you get gutted like a fish and laid out in front of the boss."

She's smiling when she says that again. There's no creepy glint lurking in her pupils, no menacing undertone to her voice. It's still a threat, though, just one made without so much malice and it dawns on Gary why he's walking with her right now.

"Did you actually need a guide?" He probably shouldn't feel proud that he made the radar enough for Sloane to give him a warning. Really, he should be worried. But even as Gary digs for that feeling, he finds himself grinning sideways at his companion instead.

Sloane gaze is hardly gray at all when she returns the grin, albeit in her reserved, always-at-arm's-length fashion. "Let's just say that I wanted all my bases covered. _And_ Shore Leave really was the only other option." She shakes her head, brow furrowed in annoyance. "He called me Sam-a-rama-ding-dong on my way to the med bay. I can't tell if he's baiting me or that's just his warped way of being friendly."

"Both," Gary supplies, resisting the urge to pat her on the shoulder. Sloane is thawing but he will chance _nothing_. "It's always both with Shore Leave."

The rest of their short walk passes in silence, albeit a far more comfortable silence than anything Gary would have believed it could be about twenty minutes beforehand. If nothing else, most of his paranoia about Sloane leading him to an ambush has dissipated.

Besides, as they pass the big dome and the Sydney Opera House-esque lab building, things get kind of interesting.

A bullhorn goes off somewhere around them, ripping through the air. Hatred pauses as he looks toward the lab then back at them, brow furrowed before he starts walking again. Since Sloane doesn't move, Gary doesn't either. Their tenacity is rewarded when the doors to the little opera house/lab/whatever open up and a stream of people in orange and white suits start filing out.

Maybe it's the abundance of sweat beading up around the line of his helmet, but when Gary glances at over at Hatred, he seems nervous. It could just be the summer heat, though, lord knows the behemoth wasn't made for warm weather, if the damp spots beneath his arms and at the small of his back are anything to judge by.

"Those are just workers for—ugh—one of Doc's projects," Hatred says, coming closer to where he and Sloane stand. "He's up at the house, though, so, if you'll keep follow—"

"Agent Hatred are those _children_?" That quiet knife has snuck back into Sloane's tone. And her glare. Consequently, Hatred's sweat glands have amped up production.

Goddammit, he really shouldn't be enjoying how nervous she makes the poor guy.

Though, wait…_are_ those kids?

Gary double takes the stream as masks are removed and hoods pushed back. They do look kinda young, at a distance it's hard to say. Their body language, though, the way they high-five, throw their heads back, and swagger, all of those things suggest they're not adults. Well, at least not full-on adults. Yet.

Hatred confirms that. "They're college kids, all eighteen and up. _Interns_." He shifts uncomfortably. "Look, Doc's work hasn't got anything to do with S.P.H.I.N.X. or the O.S.I. Now, would you like to talk to him?"

That last sentence comes out with a lot more courage than Hatred feels, Gary knows because the look on his face right after screams "Shit!" It's a feeling he's become all too familiar with in the last few hours.

Sloane surprises him—and Hatred, surely—when she doesn't so much as frown. She regards him a moment or two with that ever-unreadable look of hers then nods.

"I would. Keep going." It isn't an answer; it's a command if Gary has ever heard one. Not one that Hatred expected. Or wanted, if he's reading the resuming sweat problem right. Hatred says no more, though, no protests, no pleas, he does as he's told and turns, continuing the tread to the House.

"Be honest with me, Sloane," he says after Hatred's gotten a couple yards ahead of them again. "Are you a witch?"

Sloane chuckles and it's a not altogether disquieting sound. She doesn't deny the witch thing, though.

After they pass a line of sullen green-suits that back up the young adult contention he made, Hatred leaves them inside the long, windowed vestibule just beyond the Venture Industries sign. His words are vague and more than a little but rushed, he's clearly trying to get away from them so he can talk to Doc out of earshot. Despite the fact that she notices it—and yes, Gary is more than a little confident in Sentinel bullshit-detecting abilities—Sloane lets him go.

Since she didn't really need him in the first place and they've arrived at her destination, Gary doesn't see a point in staying. The longer he stands around, the more he fantasizes about that shower he still hasn't had. And, now that he thinks about it, food. He ate a granola bar before falling asleep on the flight back from Tangiers but he's kind of loathe to call that a meal. Hell, it fit in his palm; he's loath to call it a _snack_.

Before he can ask, though, in blows another distraction, as today has been so rife with.

"Hey, Gary!" Hank breezes through the big double doors in usual Hank fashion. Hank fashion being enviably chipper and carefree with the beefy shadow that is Dermott on his heels.

What can he say? Time is turning him to a cynic and he doesn't exactly feel bad about it. Still, he waves back to him. Cynical and paranoid though he may be, Gary won't be a dick to the kid.

"Hi, Hank. Dermott."

He's going to introduce Sloane. Really, that's absolutely where he's going with the next sentence that comes out of his mouth. A) because it's the polite thing to do, and B) because she's observing with that blank, ultra-Sentinel-y face that might unnerve the boys.

Then the door opens again and Dean, toting a crate overflowing with books, stumbles in. Literally, he stumbles and goes down. The crate flies and he's inches from eating tile when Sloane's fist curls around the collar of his recently emo-ized speed suit.

"Whoa, there." She rights Dean, in a manner Gary might almost call gentle, while his brother and…_whatever_ Dermott is to him (friends is probably not an apt description), snicker. "You okay?"

Face turning red with embarrassment and irritation (most likely thanks to the other boys) Dean shrinks back. "I'm fine." He kneels, scrabbling to pick up the crate and his books. Sloane surprises Gary by assisting. Just why it's surprising he can't say but the feeling is there, ruminating as Gary follows her example, scooping up a few stray hardbacks that managed to slide his way.

As he hands the books over and sees the others both in the case and still on the floor, it looks as if Dean has cleaned out the young adult science-fiction/fantasy section of the local library. A Wrinkle In Time, Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, and The Amber Spyglass, are just a few of the collection's many gems.

"Big sci-fi fan?" Sloane's tone is cheerful—unaffectedly so, too—as she places a book neatly in the crate.

"I—um—maybe." Dean doesn't look up, fumbling to arrange what he has of the Discworld series. "My—"

"The girl he's got the hots for is a total nerd," Dermott butts in. Gary rolls his eyes. The kid isn't bad, mostly he's just sad, attempting to be so big with so little to back it up. He sings good, though, Gary'll give him that.

Hank is right behind his friend. "Yeah! She was talking his ear off about Hugo Nebulas and Dean-O didn't know what she was saying so he had to run out and brush up."

"Whipped and he isn't even getting any." Flipping back his hair as he says that, so snotty and derisive, Gary has an itch to punch Dermott's kneecap. It's a comment that brings far too much of ninth grade to mind.

Hmm... That makes him kid number two for the day that Gary finds he can't stand. Christ, is it a getting old sort of thing?

No, some kids are just assholes.

Okay, it _may_ be a getting old sort of thing, just a bit. Shit, and he's only thirty-two, how much is he going to resent teenagers by the time he hits forty? Gary doesn't even want to think about it.

As she is becoming prone to do, Sloane flips her mask back on and she points that cold gray stare at both Hank and Dermott. Their glee evaporates and Gary decides that he's not all against the Ice Soldier persona. Handy thing, it really is.

"These are really good." The dime is turned and amiable Sloane looks at Dean. She touches the spines on a couple of Earthsea books. "I couldn't put them down when I was a kid. And they've got a lot of meat to the world, so you can pretty much read the whole set again and again and still discover something new when you do. Same with this," she hefts The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide in her right hand, smiling down at the cover. "_And_ it's really funny."

"Yep, it'll even teach you the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything." Gary can't resist, HG2G was a staple of his teenage years, even after he wound up wearing a butterfly costume.

Sloane laughs at that outright, no attempt at indifference whatsoever. It's openmouthed with a grin and Gary can even see the white lines of her teeth.

"Whoa, really?" That comes from Dermott, he and Hank both appearing just a smidge less cocky and so much more interested in the "nerdy" books Dean's carting around. "What is it?"

Gary shakes his head at them as he, along with Sloane, stands; all of Dean's books gathered from the floor. "You wouldn't get it unless you read the book."

The bulky blond does what he usually does when he knows he's being ridiculed. Upper lip curls, nose goes up, and the arms cross; Dermott could play jilted teenage girl very well, if he ever decided to cross-dress.

"Ugh. Whatever."

"Thanks...um...wait, who _are _you?" Gratitude watered down with curiosity, Dean's left eyebrow rises high and his gaze flickers from Sloane, to Gary, his brother, Dermott, and then back around to Sloane.

The stone-face stays turned off but some of the militaristic flavor returns as Sloane introduces herself properly. She doesn't do a salute though; Gary will give her not-so-much-of-a-tool points for that. "I'm S.A.S.S. Samantha Sloane. You can call me Sam. Or Agent Sloane, whichever you're more comfortable with."

"She's with S.P.H.I.N.X." Gary supplies when the boys still look unsure. "Sort of." Sloane glances at him when he tacks that last bit on. It's more disapproving than anything, which says a lot about what she thinks that the Ventures should be privy to.

He has a feeling, a prickly twist along the bottom of his gut, that Sloane is going to be very, very, _very_ unhappy with what the Ventures presently know about the goings on of the super-secret (not really) spy team that operates in their backyard.

Actually, no, Gary's money is on that she's already aware of what they know and she _definitely_ isn't a fan of giving them more.

Even so, she's still…_nice_, strange as it is to witness, to the boys. Especially given that Hank's rebuttal to Gary is, "They started letting girls in?"

Snorting in a way that is at least a little bit laugh-like, Sloane nods. "Just the ones dumb enough to sign up." She returns her attention to Dean. "If you wind up liking Hitchhiker's, you might wanna try Terry Pratchett's stuff. And Neil Gaiman's. They've all got that same ultra-British, dry humor voice going on in their books."

If that was not masterful misdirection, Gary will lick the locker room floor.

"I—okay, sure."

For a second, Gary thinks it's the beginnings of a crush that has the younger Venture's face all flushed and stammering. Which, _ugh_, worst idea if he's ever heard it. It hits him, though, when he sees that there's no adoration in the way that Dean is looking up at Sloane. Dean is merelysurprised. Because almost no fucking one has had a simple conversation with him about the kind of books he might like, least of all a stranger. For the ordinary person this is chitchat, something struck up randomly at the supermarket or the library. But not to Dean because the kid is not "normal", has never been such, and has only the faintest idea of how "normal" works.

While Gary gets pounded by fresh, new waves of guilt and self-loathing—he helped tie Dean up with creepy mecha-caterpillars once, shit he'd even _suggested_ it—that haven't crossed his mind before, Dean seems to be having that exact same epiphany.

"Well, uh, thank you. I'm gonna go read now, Miss—Agent Sloane. Nice meeting you." And off he runs. Or at least the version that Dean can best do with an awkward, overladen crate in his arms.

If Sloane is taken aback by the kid's behavior, she doesn't say anything. Her eyes widen, just a little, but that's all. Not that it matters; Dean disappears and Hatred reappears, this time with Doc in tow, and his tenseness has anything but abated.

"Hey, you boys don't bother the Sentinel, now, you hear?" To anyone else those words would be innocuous, something any guardian might say to a couple of kids so that they don't annoy the policeman standing on the street corner. Gary _knows_ though; Hatred has a past that Sloane is aware of, she doesn't like him, and they both know it.

Yet again, he reminds himself he shouldn't be so amused by the old warhorse's sweating. To clarify: Gary _shouldn't_ be but he totally is.

Hank and Dermott's response is the typical, almost Pavlovian thing teenagers do when an authority figure speaks. They roll their eyes, make a face, and wave it off even as they obey to make themselves feel like they aren't.

"Ugh, come on, we've got band practice anyway." Hank gestures to Dermott. "See ya around, Gary. Bye-bye S.P.H.I.N.X. lady." Dermott only nods, turning from them before his friend does.

"It's Sloane..." The words come out just beneath the Sentinel's breathe, muttered and not intended for anyone else's ears. Gary lets her have that, waving to the boys instead of laughing.

"See ya, guys. Rock on."

"You know, according to the interagency ethics code, neither Guild nor O.S.I. operatives are supposed to question minors without parental consent during times of peace." For a man who acts as if he wants to avoid Sloane's bad side, Hatred doesn't seem to have smart way of going about it. Thumbs hooked into his belt so that he can get the extra chest-puff going on, he sidles over to her as he talks. "Just common courtesy, you know."

That feeling that someone is going to get shot is back. It's strange, how her face doesn't even twitch and somehow fury bruises the air around Sloane.

Stranger still is how Gary realizes, when Hatred's eyes snap briefly to Hank and Dermott's retreat, that he isn't being territorial or watching his own back. Hatred is doing his best to keep the boys away from a class of agent that Gary's already been told is known for unquestioning loyalty. Loyalty that might come with orders from the General to disembowel anyone who's too nosey even if they're kids (though, he _highly_ doubts that would happen).

Parental is the best word for Hatred's concern. Maybe it shouldn't strike Gary as weird; the guy _has_ lived with the Ventures for going on two years and re-tattooed himself to prove his commitment. Then again calling yourself "Hatred" doesn't normally lend to any warm fuzzies. Still, Even with the "huh?" factor prominent, Gary finds a little bit of sympathy for Hatred's gruff ass worming its way in there.

_And_ then it's flooded out by that not-entirely-objective satisfaction that Gary gets whenever Hatred gets owned.

"Of course." The scary-pleasant smile is back. "Though, I'm sure you already knew that since the O.S.I. placed you here, pays your salary, and we," she motions to Gary, but doesn't look at him, "are technically colleagues, neither Agent Stewart nor myself could be liable for violation of that code."

Of course she can't just say, "Dude, they weren't being questioned. We were talking about books. Chill the fuck out." Nope. Sloane twists the proverbial knife as far as she can without making it a kill.

"Unless, of course, this is a proclamation of break from the agency?"

Gary winces at that. He is morally obligated to.

While Hatred pales Sloane smiles again, giving him one last courteous (not really) nod before sidestepping to Doc. From one of the pouches on her waist she brings out a j-pad mini which she flicks on and holds out to their landlord. A brand new face is in place, one that brings to mind real-estate agents and car salesmen. The _really_ good ones who you know are sleazy and out for your wallet but, hey, fuck it; they're probably going to get your money in the end so you don't struggle so much.

"Hi, Doctor Venture, so nice to meet you. I'm S.A.S.S. Sloane, and I will just need about five minutes of your time."

* * *

**Voice Fancast**

Special Agent Samantha Sloane—Laura Bailey

Dr. Archie Carrey—Donald Faison

Agent Miranda Hart—Corri English

Jayashri "Shri" Krrish—Liz Sroka

**Author's Note:** I feel like I need to explain this least I am flamed.

I love Sgt. Hatred. LOVE. I love pretty much everyone on the show, but I really do adore Hatred.

That being said, however, Sloane isn't the viewing audience who has watched him fight to be good, protect the boys, nurture them, and so forth. Sloane knows a guy who turned and bit the hand that feeds him not once but TWICE. And since Sentinel's act as a sort of IAB for O.S.I. (at least in this silly little AU I made up). She has files on the shit he's done but she doesn't KNOW him and that'll probably change. I just felt the need to assure everyone that I have no intent on vilifying Uncle Vatred in this story. I'm writing him mostly through Gary's POV and you all know how much they loved each other in "What Color Is Your Cleansuit?" which is where this bit matches up time-wise with the canon 'verse.


End file.
